


Object of Obsession

by gin_no_bara



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Mixed Martial Arts, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Sexual Abuse, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 08:16:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20775413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gin_no_bara/pseuds/gin_no_bara
Summary: River Ellwood has trained for years to protect herself against the clutches of entitled men who just want a piece of ass. But there's one man who is better trained, one she might not be able to escape.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know what this is. I just got the urge to write about this gorgeous bastard and I'm seeing where this will take me. This will probably end up being pretty dark, because I like writing messed up stuff (^_^). It'll be oc-focused as well, and heavy with the martial arts. I'm learning some self defense and I just wanna fucking write about it (ง'̀-'́)ง
> 
> Also updates will probably be slow as I'm busy with real life stuffs sighhhhh

There was nothing but icy calm and coldness in his eyes as he stood over the body, blood sprayed across his shirt.

I blinked in dizzy disbelief, trying to absorb what I was seeing. Was that the glint of a knife in his hand? 

The world was spinning, out of order, like flashes of memories that were long forgotten. Or like a disorienting dream I was just waking up from. Somehow I was sprawled on the ground, with no idea of how I'd gotten there. I tried to move, but my body wouldn't work, wouldn't move the way I wanted it to. 

_ Drugged. . . I've been drugged _. . .

It was the only plausible explanation. I'd taken molly once at an underground rave in high school. I recognized this bewildering, spinning hell in my body. Alcohol was one thing, but this was quite another. 

Rolling onto my side, I heard footsteps come toward me. 

"You ok?" His voice was firm, but light and calm, and it took everything within me to lift my upper body and look up at the stranger covered in red. 

Those cold black eyes stared back at me, and I should have registered fear. But there seemed to be concern on his features, instead of malice. 

He looked me over from head to toe and I could do no more than blink at him. My mouth seemed incapable of forming words, my body fumbling to move. 

Before I realized what was happening, I was on my feet, leaning into this stranger as he lifted me up. All I could do was stare at the body on ground -- my _ stalker's _ body.

"It's alright, I got you," the stranger said, pulling me in close. I registered his height, the leanness of his body against mine. 

"What. . . happened?" I somehow managed in a slurred, quaking whisper as I looked down at myself, at my ripped sweater, at the zipper open on my jeans.

The last thing I remembered was leaving the bar after one drink. I'd seen him watching me from the corner again. That man, that asshole who'd been stalking me for months. I didn't let on that I knew he was there, and I'd been careful as I snuck out the back, my hand on my taser in my purse, my body pounced to strike. Or so I'd thought.

And that was where my memory left me. 

"He knocked you out from behind, hit you over the back of the head." The stranger's arm looped around my ribcage, holding me steady. 

I grunted in response, horrified and trying to remember, but the throb at the base of my skull told me it was the truth. 

_ Shit. . . I probably have a concussion. . . _

"Hospital. . ." was what I managed to say, even though I had a hundred more questions.

"I got you," the stranger said again, holding me as he started to walk, leading me out of the alley. 

A puddle of black crimson pooled around the unmoving asshole's head on the pavement as we walked past.

_ Jesus Christ. That much blood. . . _

Icy needles plunged through me. He was dead. He had to be. 

Then I noticed his pants were unzipped too.

My teeth clenched, and that detail centered me a little, providing something concrete for my mind to latch on to. "Wait. . . Call the. . . the police." The words came out in a shuddering croak, but tinged with anger.

"It's ok, just keep walking," the man said, his voice soft, unlike the strong arms around me, driving me forward. 

"Call. . . them," I repeated, trying to get my fingers to work as I looked for my purse, for my phone, both of which seemed to be missing.

"You're safe, it's ok." He smelled clean, like expensive cologne, aside from the copper tang of fresh blood. So I knew he wasn't some meth addict or bum sleeping in the alley, ready to take advantage of a helpless woman.

But there was still a mild logic somewhere inside me that knew something was off, that perhaps this stranger was every bit as dangerous as my now-probably-dead stalker. He was acting like my calm savior, but the blood on his shirt, the blood on the ground. . .

"Wait. . . stop." My voice steadied a fraction as I tried to gain a hold on rational thought and the spinning world around me. I stumbled, my legs like molten jelly, but the man pulled me forward towards an SUV at the curb. 

The New York street corner was oddly quiet, unusual for this time of night. Part of me was hoping for a crowd, for people recording the whole thing with their phones. A growing pit in my stomach wanted as many witnesses as possible. But it seemed the world was silent and blind.

The man pressed me into the passenger seat, sliding his arms from my ribs and lifting me up with ease. Unable to do much of anything else, I obediently slid into the vehicle. That's when I noticed splatters of blood on my own hand. . . and then noticed the taste of it in my mouth. 

My head lolled as I reached for the sunvisor mirror, my unfocused eyes blinking in disbelief as they landed on my reflection. Blood ran from my swollen lip, and a cut across my temple was smeared with darkened scarlett, matting in my light brown hair.

"I'll get you patched up." My so-called savior was now sitting in the driver's seat, giving me a smile that I assumed was supposed to be reassuring. 

My vision filled with black spots as I tried to focus on his face. It was a handsome face, beautiful even. But the dark eyes and matching dark hair and whisper of a beard began to fade into the rest of the night. I desperately tried to hold onto a consciousness I could feel waning away from me. The car lurched forward and my stomach heaved as the knot on the back of my head hit the headrest, knocking me back into full darkness. 

  



	2. Chapter 2

The headache. 

That was the first thing I noticed. That, and the incessant dry mouth, as if a jackhammer were pounding through my skull and drilling cotton down my throat.

Groaning, I blinked slowly, trying to open my eyes. My sense of balance felt like it was rotating out of control, but I managed to get my arms under me enough to sit upright against something soft that cushioned my body. 

_ What the hell happened? Where am I? _

Flashes of memory began to come back to me in bits and pieces. My stalker following me again. . . his body on the ground in the alley. . . the blood. . . so much blood. . . the handsome stranger. . . the SUV. . . I couldn't remember anything after that. 

My stomach lurched and I coughed, dry heaving as vomit threatened to come up my esophagus.

"Easy there." A face swam in front of my eyes, one that I was able to get a better look at in lighting that wasn't a dark alley. 

High cheekbones, black eyes indistinguishable from the pupils, a slim jaw darkened by a refined five-day beard -- a wealthy man’s face, my mind realized fuzzily. His hair was thick and dark, longer on the top than the sides, and styled back, away from his face. He was lean, tall. Not an old man, but not a grad student like me, either. A man in his prime -- and impeccably dressed in an expensive suit. He looked like he belonged on Wall Street, not rescuing strange girls in back alleys near campus. 

"Here drink this," he said, sitting down next to me and holding out a bottle of liquid that I suddenly desperately wanted. Pedialyte.

I took it without replying. My head felt heavy, too sore to speak for a moment. I inhaled a long swig of the drink despite my nausea. I'd had both concussions and hangovers before, and I knew the importance of electrolytes and fluids. 

Taking another long swallow and trying not to move my throbbing skull too much, I glanced at my surroundings. Even though I was sitting on a comfortable couch with a multitude of pillows, I was surprised by what I saw around me. I expected a suave apartment, given the polished look of the man next to me. Instead, I found myself inside one large square room, empty except for the bench presses, weights, deadlift bars, hanging bags on chains, mirrors, sparring mats. . . 

I was on a comfortable couch. . . in a _ gym _?

I also registered the lack of windows, the concrete block walls painted in white, the stairs leading up to a metal door. I had the distinct feeling this room was underground, some sort of basement gym.

My eyes rounded to the man sitting next to me. "Who are you?" I asked, unsurprised by how dry and scratchy my voice sounded despite the liquid. "What happened? What am I doing here?"

He was watching me intently, his legs crossed, one arm slung casually across the back of the couch, his sculpted mouth curved in a slight smile.

I didn't break my gaze from his, eyeing him suspiciously. I couldn't remember much from the night before -- or what I assumed was the night before as I had no idea what time it actually was or if it was even the next day yet. I didn't remember being attacked by my stalker, or how I ended up on the ground, or how this man came to rescue me. Nor did I remember how I ended up here in this gym. 

But what _ was _ clear in my memory was that my rescuer had ignored my requests to call the police, and he didn't take me to the hospital either. 

"Well, I'm the man who stitched your forehead and cleaned your face," he finally said nonchalantly, as if that were an answer.

Regardless, I gently touched my temple where a cut had been bleeding down the side of my face. I felt the sterie strips beneath my fingertips, felt the lack of blood caking my skin. My lip, though still swollen, felt as if it'd been cleaned up too. 

"Thank you," I replied, keeping my voice even. "But that really didn't really answer the question though." 

He gave me a full smile this time and leaned towards me. "Billy," he said, holding his hand out to me. "Billy Russo."

Tentatively, I grasped his hand and shook it. His grip was strong, sure of himself. And he held on slightly longer than necessary before pulling back and resuming his relaxed position. 

I hadn't given him my name in return, and I knew by the look on his face that he had noticed. But he didn't seem upset or bothered by it. And he didn't ask.

Instead he said, "And you're wondering what you're doing here."

"Yes, I must admit I'm surprised I'm not in an ER," I said carefully, unable to ignore the unpleasant sensation in my insides that I suspected had nothing to do with the nausea. "I don't remember much about what happened, but I'm pretty sure I told you to call the police." 

Russo exuded every bit of that calmness he'd shown in the alley, his face giving away nothing. "Are you questioning my intentions? That's really no way to thank someone who pulled that piece of shit rapist off of you."

I took a quick breath, still having difficulty processing that my stalker had somehow managed to drug me and nearly rape me. _ Jesus. How had I managed to be so careless? _It was totally unlike me.

"Christ," I cursed aloud. "I'm sorry. My head is pounding and it's making it difficult to think straight." I was being rude to the guy who rescued me. For what? It wasn't his fault. Really it was mine, for not being more aware of my surroundings. 

"Ah, it's understandable," Russo said. "I thought that might be the case, so I brought you _here_, where I thought you'd be more comfortable." 

Russo seemed so easygoing, unconcerned sitting back like that, looking at me. But his words instantly made the uneasiness return to my insides. Did he somehow know that I spent the majority of my free time at a gym similar to this one? 

No. I forced my breathing to slow, forced my mind to remain rational. No. How could he know that? I'd never seen this guy before, I was sure of that. I couldn't forget a face like his or those unnerving dark eyes. I even vaguely wondered if it weren’t for that chill-inducing vibe he was giving me, if I’d be genuinely attracted to him. 

_ No, I wouldn't. _

I stayed as far away from men -- especially rich, attractive men -- as I could. I had grown up around wealthy, powerful people, and I wanted nothing to do with the games they liked to play.

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. What kind of guy doesn't call the cops after rescuing a drugged girl who was almost raped in an alley? 

_ The kind who don't want to be caught by cops. . . _

The images of blood on pavement flashed in my mind. . . The blood on Russo's hand, his shirt. . . That much of it pooling from an injury could only mean one thing. . . he likely didn't survive.

And that was probably why this guy didn't call the cops. _Shit_. I was so close to graduating and I really didn't need anything screwing that up. 

Russo interrupted my racing thoughts. "And, I also brought you here to ask you what it is you _ do _ remember." 

There was no hint of coldness in his voice, but the question solidified my suspicion that he didn't want me calling the cops.

I bit my lip, choosing my words cautiously. "Well, um. . . it's all fuzzy in my mind. It was dark. . . and I was disoriented. . . I mainly remember you standing over that asshole and then you helped me up, and you put me in your car." 

I left out the part about seeing all the blood, and possibly even seeing the glint of a knife.

"Look," I said, moving forward slowly, intending to stand up, and then pausing as more dizziness hit me. "I appreciate what you've done for me. I really do. I'm glad that you helped me. But I really just want to get back to my apartment. If you're worried I'll say something to someone, I won't. I don't need any trouble. If you you could call a cab for me, that'd be great. And if you give me your card, I can arrange to pay you back. . ." 

I felt myself on the verge of rambling, my nerves going on high alert as I suddenly wanted nothing more than to remove myself from the whole strange situation.

Russo's features didn't flicker, but I had the sense that he was observing everything about me, absorbing every detail behind that casualness. And it unsettled me even more.

With the world still spinning and my legs still shaky, I made myself stand, my head ringing with the movement, my vision rippling as I tried to focus on the door across the room. 

Russo made no move to stand with me. 

"You know," he said slowly as I found my footing, "in my line of work, I come in contact with some seriously fucked up people. Some of them even like to stalk and rape women." 

My brow raised in shock and my head turned to face him. "What?" 

Russo seemed pleased at my reaction, like he was expecting my surprise, or wanted it. 

"What do you mean? Are you. . ." It took me a moment to find my words as I realized what Russo was implying. "Are you saying you _ knew _ him? You knew Earnhardt?" 

I saw the blood, the puddle pooling out around him. Russo _ knew _ him?

"Well, it's not everyday that one of my guys is arrested after being beaten up by some college girl. I've been after him for a while. I should thank you for finding him for me." 

As if to put an intimidating emphasis to his words, Russo stood. And I couldn't help but take an involuntary step back. He was taller than I had realized in the dark alley, dwarfing my smaller frame much more than I remembered. 

_And how the hell does he know I'm in college?_

I could feel a panic starting to bubble up, my fight or flight response about to kick in. I didn't like men in general nor the vulnerable way they made me feel, especially _ tall _ men. 

It was why I'd spent so many years training -- ever since I was fifteen. I never wanted to feel the way I'd felt back then. Cornered. Trapped. Helpless. Not ever. 

And that's how Aaron Earnhardt -- my stalker -- had ended up with a broken face, a cracked rib and a torn perineum about a week ago. He had approached me in a parking garage one night after class, after I had explicitly told him to leave me alone several times before that. He had grabbed me, and in less than ten seconds I had him out on the ground.

And now, the fact that this Russo knew it, that maybe he knew Earnhardt was following me yet again, and then had probably killed the guy, only made me that much more on edge. 

And I no longer cared if I was being rude.

"I don't know what this is, but I think I've already had enough," I said, tamping down the rising anxiety. I stepped further back, out of reach, making sure Russo didn't intend to grab me. "I don't care that you knew Earnhardt. I don't even care if you killed him." And despite some inner moral horror at myself for saying that aloud, I realized it was true. "I won't call the police. But, I'm leaving here and I don't ever want to see you again."

Russo surprised me by shrugging. I half expected him to lunge for me or try to stop me. Instead he waved his hand forward, as if to say, "Ok, go ahead."

I didn't waste any time. Putting one foot in front of the other, I gathered what strength I had and forced my feet across the floor to the stairs, forcing them upwards towards the steel door, one that reminded me of some sort of heavy duty freezer.

Glancing over my shoulder, I was relieved Russo didn't follow me. 

But that relief quickly turned to cold fear as I yanked on the metal handle.

_Locked_.

Maybe I should have expected it. I swallowed, my pulse starting to pick up speed as I now heard Russo's footsteps crossing the gym floor. 

_Locked. The door is locked._ _I'm trapped_. _I'm trapped. _My thoughts started to swirl frantically in my mind, making me want to vomit.

_ No. If you can't leave a situation, you fight. Fight or flight. Flight first, then fight when you can't. _

Silencing the voice of panic that was trying to take hold of me, I turned around and scanned the gym, looking for any other possible escape. An alcove in the far corner looked like it might disappear into a locker room or bathroom. And maybe an exit. 

I made my way back down the stairs just in time for Russo to reach me. He looked over his shoulder to see what had caught my eye. "That's the breakroom," he said. "Only way out is through there." He lifted his finger, gesturing to the locked steel.

This time I stood my ground as he towered over me. "What is this? Why is the door locked?" I asked, keeping my voice calm, trying not to betray the way my shoulders squared and my muscles tensed, the balanced way I spread my feet beneath me, my entire body preparing to spring into action.

Russo's face had an almost imperceptible brightness, like he was hiding a smile. I half wondered if he had expected me to freak out, to cry, to react in total fear. Part of me wanted to do just that, but oddly, the massive headache pounding against my skull was perhaps the biggest thing keeping me grounded. That, and my training. 

Or maybe it was the fury quickly rising inside me. I didn't like feeling cornered, locked in a room I didn't know how to get out of, particularly with a man who was invading my personal space in a way that was clearly meant to scare me. 

But one advantage of being a small female was that arrogant men like this bastard didn't see me coming. 

Russo's dark eyebrow was arched upwards as he looked down at me. "Is this really how you treat someone who saved you?" 

"Unlock the door," I demanded, my voice beginning to vibrate with anger. "Let me out right now." _ Or I'm going to kick your ass into the next time zone. _

But Russo ignored me, making no move toward the stairs. "It's a shame, really. This would have turned out better if you had never seen me last night. Well, better for you anyway, that is. Because I can't let you go now." 

  



	3. Chapter 3

The danger was pulsing in the room, and I knew I had seconds to act if I wanted to go on the offensive and take Russo off guard. 

He had height and strength on me, but I had speed and agility. Though in the back of my mind, I knew the aftereffects of the drugs would slow me down, making me struggle even more from a position of disadvantage.

_ Goddamn it, _ I cursed myself. I never went out for drinks, instead preferring to remain clear-headed and in full control of my faculties. Why had I let Sarah convince me?

But I couldn't dwell on that now. I needed to find a way out of here first. 

Making the snap decision to strike, I lunged my hand upwards, aiming my palm at the bottom of Russo's chin, beneath his jaw. I intended to pull him down onto my knee followed by a strong shin to the groin the instant his head flew back. And I'd probably go for an elbow smash to the upper spine for good measure.

But to my utter surprise, he seemed ready for me, immediately snatching my wrist midair with a quickness that shocked me.

"Ah-ah," he said, almost as if he were scolding a child.

Despite the hammer in my head, I didn't let that stop me. Raising my other arm, I quickly tucked my forearm into my shoulder and went in for an elbow to the breastbone while simultaneously twisting my wrist to pull it out between Russo's thumb and forefinger.

But he saw both coming, blocking my hit and tightening his grip on my wrist, preventing me from breaking free. 

But I wasn't about to let this bastard snare me like that. 

I dropped down, ready to take him off his feet with a low spinning sweep kick. The best way to knock out a stronger, bigger opponent was on the ground. And I was a hell of a grappler. 

But as quick as lightning, Russo's knee came up and met me, drilling me right in the spleen.

"Yes, River Ellwood," he taunted out my name, "the first woman at Columbia University to get an invite for the Krav Maga black belt. I was sorely disappointed not to see you in action last night. Though I guess I may have slowed you down with that tranquilizer in your drink."

It was his words, not the agony in my gut, that stunned me. He knew who I was? And _ he _ was the one that drugged me?

Anger took over the pain, flooding me with a primal rage that I eagerly let fuel me. 

I straightened my burning torso and lept, flying up with one foot landing on Russo's thigh to give me leverage so I could propel my other leg around the back of his neck and bring him down to the ground. I wanted nothing more at that moment than to smash the bastard's face the way I'd smashed Earnhardt's.

I wasn't an MMA fighter, not prone to violence nor seeking it out. I knew some guys and a couple of girls at the gym who gladly got in the cage every week, but it was far too claustrophobic for me, too similar to being trapped. Locked up. 

And that was a situation I trained to keep myself out of, not willingly walk into, despite my trainer's many objections. I just wasn't that scrappy or in the mood to compete. I simply wanted to protect myself when the need called for it.

But sparring in the gym wasn't like real life. And perhaps I'd let myself get too cocky when I took out Earhandt last week. With surprise on my side, I had been able to end it before it had even begun. And it hadn't hurt that he was drunk at the time either. Of all my years in training, that had been the one and only real fight I'd ever been in. 

This time was a different story. This time I was the one with the impaired reflexes. 

And Russo knew. He _ knew _ I trained, and he anticipated my movements with such speed that I had no doubt he had a set of skills himself. 

And he knew exactly what I was going for when my foot landed against his thigh. I felt his hand catch me behind the ankle too late to react and recover. I saw the ceiling above me as I fell backwards.

I managed to snag his tie as I went down, scrambling for anything to give me a lead on him. But the brunt of my back and skull hitting the floor knocked all the air from my lungs and thoughts from my mind. Stars swam in my vision, my head already cracked from the night before. My consciousness ebbed and everything started to fade to black, as if my brains had been splattered on the ground like an egg. 

I somehow managed to keep myself from passing out, and Russo's smirking face materialized over me through the darkness.

"It's really not disappointing to see someone so small have moves. If I hadn't known, you might have had me. Maybe. If you weren't so hungover." 

I felt his hand pry my fingers loose from his tie, and it dawned on me that I'd at least succeeded in getting him off his feet. Which meant I needed to act. Fast. 

Normally, being on my back would give my opponent a false sense of security, thinking they had the dominant position. But I was very skilled at twisting my legs around to gain the upper hand, particularly with my favorite, the deadly shin choke. 

The problem was that my entire body felt as if it were spinning, like falling through the atmosphere in an out-of-control space capsule. I couldn't seem to get a read on where my limbs were in relation to Russo's. My senses were near black with pain and it was taking everything I had not to puke. But I _ couldn't _ let that make me helpless. Just the thought made rage consume me. And I hungrily let it. 

Using anger as a propellant for my body, I swung my knee up and twisted, catching Russo in the ear with a heel kick. 

I heard a satisfying grunt as my foot made contact. 

But dizziness had slowed all my senses and my sluggish reaction time wasn't enough. Like a fanged cobra Russo struck out at me like the easy prey I was in that state. He snatched my leg as I tried to shove my shin under his neck and he flipped me over. 

Pinning me to the floor, he twisted my arm straight behind my back, my face buried in the concrete. I struggled to turn my head to breath with his knee crushing into the center of my spine. 

"You really aren't in any condition to fight." Russo heaved a heavy sigh, as if disappointed.

"Let go of me!" I snarled, feeling my heartbeat pound viciously inside my head as I tried to struggle. But he had my arm locked behind me with so much force it felt like the bones would snap at any second.

And this time I knew he had me. No one gets out of an armbar without going into a cast. Those kinds of joint locks could take down even a Navy SEAL. And it hurt like a bitch.

But I refused to cry out. 

"Why are you doing this? What do you want with me?" I was practically growling with anger, hating that I was trapped, hating that I was barely able to stay conscious, hating that I was failing to protect myself. Again. 

"Well, to be honest, the smart thing to do would be to kill you," Russo said, a warning edge to his tone.

There was something cold and deadly in the way he said those words, and all the anger in the world couldn't have prevented the terror that struck through me. 

Who was this asshole? And what the hell had I stumbled into last night?

"But I was curious about you. How does a rich little college girl get the best of an ex-military spec ops? Hmm?" Russo paused, as if letting that information sink in. "Why was Earnhardt following you?"

"What? I don't know! I didn't know he was military! Jesus," I coughed as my lungs couldn't take in air to breathe, and my head was throbbing so violently I fought to process his words. "He was just some creep who I turned down! I didn't know who he was!"

It hadn't been the first time it happened to me, or even the second. People think having a pretty face is a blessing. It isn't. It's a curse. It didn't matter if I dressed in t-shirts and sweatpants, or if I hid inside an oversized hoodie with no makeup and my hair pulled back, or if my scrubs were covered in blood and piss from working my clinicals at the animal shelter. Men seemed to think they had the right to approach me and get angry when I immediately shot them down. They seemed to think they had a right to my body just because I had won some genetic lottery. It was why I avoided people, avoided men, avoided relationships. It was why I was in veterinary school. Animals were never entitled assholes. 

Russo's weight shifted and he bent my arm at the elbow. I nearly cried in relief until he twisted it painfully against my back and I felt him lean in close, his breath against my neck. "Tell me something. What is a vet school girl doing mastering deadly martial arts?"

I shouldn't have been surprised that he knew what my major was, given everything else he already seemed to know. But it deeply disturbed me nonetheless, momentarily rendering me speechless. 

When I didn't reply, Russo pulled my arm further, shooting an agonizing pain up into my shoulder. I grit my teeth and held back a scream.

"You see from where I'm standing, it looks a little suspicious. You want to tell me who you work for?" I could feel his black eyes on the side of my face, searching. 

"Nobody! Jesus Christ, I'm a nobody!" I raged at him, putting as much venom into my voice as I could. 

"A nobody?" Russo laughed in my ear, a soft, subtle sound that cut to the bone. "A little rich girl takes on ex-military? Now that's _ someone _ to me."

My skin turned frigid, a darkness growing in my gut. Did this man save me last night just to torture me and kill me? 

Then my mind caught on to what he called me. "I'm not rich," I panted, noting the hint of an almost hateful tone he had put behind the word, which struck me as odd, given the way he dressed and carried himself. "My parents are, but if you're looking for hostage money, don't count on it." I grunted, trying to breathe as I spoke. "I haven't seen them in years, not since I left home like. . . eight years ago."

"I don't need money, sweetheart," Russo shot back, making me clench my jaw at the use of that word, _ sweetheart _. "But I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to leave because I've got work to do, and you're gonna stay here and think about what you'll tell me when I get back. That sound good to you?"

My body practically convulsed in response as he finally let go and his weight lifted from me. My ribs instantly expanded, eagerly drawing in a full set of air. I rolled over with a groan, staring up into the dark, narrowed eyes on me, eyes that were almost daring me to get up and fight.

Instead I glared at him with every ounce of revulsion I had within me. As much as I wanted to swing myself around and throw a sweep kick that would send him to the ground, I knew that I needed to play smart. If he was going to kill me, he would have done it while he held me down. No, first I had to rest and recover as much as I could before he came back. 

And _ then _ I would fight.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
